


Go Home, Bearodactyl, You're Drunk.

by Measured_Words



Category: Motherfucking Pterodactyl (Video)
Genre: #Yulechat Challenge 2012, Alcohol, Bodily Fluids, Crack, Fireworks, Gen, POV First Person, Random Acts of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-21 02:07:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/592253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Measured_Words/pseuds/Measured_Words
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just another day in the life for Bearyl a.k.a. the Bearodactyl now that she's all grown up.  Not so much for the poor homeless gentleman who gets dragged along for the ride.  But hey things turn out more or less okay for everyone...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Go Home, Bearodactyl, You're Drunk.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moriann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moriann/gifts).



> Thanks to M and N, my helpful betas!
> 
> I know this doesn't follow any of your specific suggestions, but it is the first thing that came into my head when I tried to think of something that could match the craziness of the original. So I hope you enjoy it :D

Go Home, Bearodactyl, You're Drunk.

Well shitballs, dad was at it again. The screams echoing through the walls meant that he'd found some new lady to woo, or possibly to disembowel. Or for mom to disembowel. Or maybe all of the above, who could say? Life was a constant spectacle of sex, violence and body humor of questionable taste. And flavour. This status quo was not a bad thing, per se, but sometimes one just wanted to cause one's own rampant chaos. Really the best thing to do on a day like this was to get out of the house. 

Now, one of my favourite ways to kick off a day if I'm bored and being left to my own devices, is to go down to the river and gorge myself on fish that the government says people aren't allowed to catch. The tears of the jealous fishermen are a delicious digestif! Sometimes they're all "No, Bearodacytl! Think of the ecosystem!" And then I'm all, "Fuck you! I am a unique fucking species, I do what I want. Also call me Bearyl." Only with more growling and they never seem to actually understand. That's usually when the killing rage starts, and I come out of it flying above the river, draped in the finest of couture entrails. One time I realized I'd drunk an entire lake's worth of tadpoles. I was shitting frogs for like a month after that. It's fucking awesome being me!

It was clear that I'd already been through my (first) murder-spree of the day when I came out of it this time, and I could tell pretty fast I'd gotten into something extra fucked up by the way my head was spinning. I wasn't really sure where I was – but there was a terrified, extra-disgusting-smelling human cowering behind a rusted out barrel with some pipes sticking out of it. My mouth tasted disgusting, and my usual constant drooling was doing nothing to help. I reached for the barrel – the human whined something about 'blah blah blah, please god not again.' I'd been intending to throw it at him, but it turned out the barrel was full of liquid, so – score! I tore it open and emptied it into my gaping maw. Or, as other assholes have noted, my not-so gaping maw. I can never decide if it is for better or worse that I didn't inherit dad's jaws.

Anyway, into my gullet went the mystery liquid! I am fucking brilliant I tell you. It tasted of fermented ass mixed with piss and vinegar. I'm sure I drank more fucked up shit when I was a baby (for the record, I fucking hate pineapple now. Cannot fucking stand it), but whatever this was hit my stomach and came right back up, blasting the bridge in front of me. The concrete hissed and crumbled. The grass around it turned brown and died.

Sweet! Projectile acid vomit! I was gonna have fun with this. The human was crying more. I decided he must be a hobo, and figured what the hell. I swallowed the rest of the vile liquid (the sludge at the bottom of the barrel tasted a little fishy, but that was okay with me), threw it aside, picked up the hobo, and flew off.

My guts were not super happy with being airborne, and though I'd meant to keep it down for more directed mayhem, it didn't seem to be completely under my control. The hobo's twitching and writhing in terror wasn't helping matters, so I shook him. Maybe not my best plan, I realized as I felt the bile rising at the back of my throat. I opened my mouth and BLEH!!!!

By this time we were flying over some podunk little town, and splashes of my vomit spattered down on the scene below. A hole burned right through a bank's vault and, seized by a sudden spirit of philanthropy, I swooped down close and beat my wings so that a vortex of bills flew out to litter the streets. Another splash of bile happened to disintegrate a human who'd apparently been doing something nefarious as a nearby lady called out her gratitude and eternal love. "Oh Bearyl! You saved me! Let me reward you with the gift of my womb! I will raise our children with the tenderest of love and the choicest cuts of offal!" I hear it a lot, I gotta say. Wooing ladies is in the blood, and it doesn't seem to matter that I am one.

Anyway, there was chaos in the streets now, as people were running about grasping after the swirling cash, weaving around still bubbling pools of puke burning their way into the pavement. I roared my general approval. By that time the hobo – I'd taken to thinking of him as Carlos – had climbed up onto my back, which was probably a safer bet than trusting me to hang on to him. I might have stayed to have my way with that one lady, but this stuff was destroying my concentration. And I don't have a whole lot of that to start with, let me tell you!

By this point the mess in my stomach was really starting to fuck with my head, which in turn was fucking with my flying. I was having trouble determining where exactly straight was – at least up was easy to tell from which direction Carlos was hanging, and by the shrillness of his screams. The 'straight' issue was more pressing though, as I seemed to be careening towards the side of a mountain. This thing was fucking HUGE, I'm telling you – Mount Srs Bsns, all up in my shit. Only one thing I could figure to do, and by the way Carlos started cackling I was sure it was the right thing. I spewed the rest of the contents of my stomach at the mountain. This time the narrowness of my jaws was a boon, as it sprayed in a narrow beam, carving a hole into the stone. Fuck you, mountain, I win!

Well, sorta. It turned out that this mountain was full of old mine shafts, and I didn't so much puke my way through the whole thing as just into one of the tunnels. It was pretty dark, and my stomach felt like not only had it been burned from the inside out, but also like I swallowed a whole fucking ocean of razor blades. On top of that, I was feeling dizzy, and it was all starting to piss me off...

Thank fuck for Carlos. I figure he must have known the signs at this point, and didn't want to take his chances since he was the closest thing to eviscerate, so instead he climbed down, and took my paw, trying to be all reassuring even though he reeked of terror and fucking hobo-sweat.

"Come on... Bearyl... Let's go this way, get ya outta here, find ya something not-me to eat, you'll feel better... You really shouldn'a drank wine that fresh on an empty stomach, but that's okay..."

I growled at him, but amiably. He had a nice voice, Carlos did, and he kept tugging me along through the tunnel. I know my proud ancestors were all cave dwellers and shit, but I grew up in a fucking house, and any instincts I had were being over-ridden by the pain. I had no sense of direction or time, I just knew that I had to get something – ANYTHING – in my stomach, and soon. 

The first things we came across that weren't rocks or dirt (and believe me, I'd been considering the dirt) were boxes. And now, I know what you're thinking. Drinking that barrel full of fuck knows what is what got me into this situation in the first place. Well, first of all fuck you. Second of all, I doubt you fucking know what it feels like to have hobo hooch so rancid in your guts that you can puke tunnels through solid stone. Thirdly, I'm a fucking bearodactyl. How much sense does that even make? What kind of base levels of logic did you think we were even starting with here? Yeah. Of course I ate the fucking boxes, and everything in them.

It felt great! Initially. Carlos had an absolutely horrified expression though, and pointed at some scraps of wood that had somehow managed to escape my feeding frenzy. I could just make out the letters 'ynamit'. In the time it took me to realize this was not some kind of fancypants 'must be stored in abandoned mineshaft' hipster sushi, and that there was a missing 'd' and 'e' endcapping the remaining word, it was too late to do anything much beyond go along for the ride. Carlos displayed further genius hobo-survival intuition by running towards me rather than away. Seriously, the safest place to be was out of the potential firing range of any of my dangerously loaded orifices, and clinging desperately to my back hair was the most expedient way to get there.

My insides were rumbling ominously now, and panic-rage starting to set in. This mostly involves a lot of roaring, growling and rending. Continuing to display his brilliant fucking knack for self-preservation, Carlos dug his heels into my back and screamed. I charged forward blindly, whether trying to flee from the inevitable or just looking for a target to vent my rage on even I didn't know.

Well, I couldn't outrun the inevitable. There was some serious fucking chemistry going on in my belly, and they were not the kind of reactions that force of will alone could contain. I'm still not sure what happened next exactly. I might have already seen light up ahead, but I wasn't thinking anything like clearly enough to be sure. Maybe there was still just solid stone until the mess in my guts came roaring up, exploding out of the mountain in a rainbow of fire. I followed along behind it, spreading my wings and gliding out across the countryside, belching prismatic flames. The shit in my system was too much for just one outlet to handle though, and soon ass-plosions were added to the mix. My ass was forcefully ejecting phosphorescent nuggets of crap, which in turn exploded into fairly impressive pyrotechnic displays of their own. That's right – anyone who may have been watching below was being treated to the shittiest fireworks display of their lives. They should hope.

All this fucked up shit was exhausting, and my head was still spinning. Carlos, whose survival to this point had clearly either driven him mad or given him some kind of confidence boost, was talking to me reassuringly again. Somehow he seemed to know where the hell we were, and got us turned around and headed for home. Come on, you don't think everyone knows where I live? You know. The big house, with the fucking dinosaur and the fucked up bear thing, where all the ladies go for loving and also sometimes there is screaming.

Anyway, that fucking ugly fucker Lystrosaurus was hanging outside waiting for dad to be done with the wench of the hour so they could go to their Tuesday night lawn bowling club potluck, and he's all "Bearyl! Where have you been! And don't think your father won't tear _you_ a new asshole if you keep bringing danged pets home! You better ditch that awful smelling human!"

But fuck that. I couldn't ditch Carlos! Dude probably saved my fucking life. I'll take my chances with dad. He forgave me after the frogs ate half his fireflies afterall. As for my new friend, I'm gonna crown him the king of the fucking hobos, and make sure he is set up with hookers (preferably live) and beer (no more hobo hooch) for life. And we're gonna live happily ever fucking after. The End.


End file.
